


they live on

by bachmanroad



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Blood and Gore, Emetophobia, Gen, References to Canon, minimalist, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 11:52:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3248675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bachmanroad/pseuds/bachmanroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>phone guy prepares for his last week of work, wondering how he is going to tie up twenty years of messy, loose ends, in his final five nights at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	they live on

**Author's Note:**

> the dialogue in parts i and v are partially lifted from canon.

i.

 

‘there’s really no shame in retiring,’ CEO says. ‘heck, out of everyone, you deserve it. you’ve been here almost as long as the robots.’ 

Guy gulps. the CEO, enraptured by his speech, carries on.

‘and all this time, you’ve always taken the grunt work. no matter how many times we’ve tried to promote you, you’ve always been happiest in that darn crackerjack office, sat in the dark.’ the CEO is looking right at him, and oh god, does he know? 

CEO smiles. 

‘you’ll really be missed around here, Guy.’

‘thanks…’

CEO leans forward over the desk, as if to impart Guy with a secret. ‘I want you to do me just one last favour.’

‘well sure.’ Guy cannot stop wringing his hands. 

‘could you record a little welcome message for the new hire? just rattle off the policy, give ‘em an… idea, about how the game is played?’

Guy’s hands pause. ‘you’re not gonna train anyone?’

CEO’s eyes roam the room. ’I think you know as well as I do what a… uh, drain on resources that would be. we’ll set the manager’s phone to automatically call the security office line at midnight and play your pre-recorded messages. I think it’ll be better for everyone that way. less messy.’ 

CEO raises to his feet, gestures for Guy to do the same. He takes Guy’s nervous hands into his own, sweaty and meaty, and shakes. 

‘place just won’t be the same without you around.’

 

Guy settles down into the rusting chair. he checks the clock; 11:49. he checks that the office’s generator is charged, the output reads 100%. on his desk is a battered digital recorder, early millennial. Guy fumbles with the ON button.

‘hello? hel-hello? testing, one, two, three, four.’

he hits pause, rewind, play.

_‘hello? hel-hello? testing, one, two, three, four.’_

100%, 11:52. Guy finds his scribbled notes, and presses RECORD again. 

‘hello? hel-hello? I, uh, just wanted to record a message for you! to help you get settled in.’

from the security feed, Guy hears something falling over in the dining hall. 100%, 11:58. 

‘I’m just finishing up my last week, now, as a matter of fact.’ a lump forms in his throat and catches. ‘I know it can be a bit… overwhelming.’

99%, 12:12. he pauses, checking the pirate cove feed. 

‘uh, the animatronic characters here do get a bit… quirky a night.’ Guy pays witness to Foxy’s hook, slipping between the curtains and pulling them back, just a touch. 

Freddy is staring at CAM 1A, dead on. his eyes two sharp, memory spiking pinpricks. ‘these characters hold a special place in the hearts of children.’

Chica is no longer on stage. 

‘we need to show them a little respect.’ 

there’s clattering from the kitchen, and something humming, too melodically to be the fan on his desk. in pirate’s cove, Foxy’s hook pulls back the curtains, just a touch. 

Guy sighs, scratches at a tuft of grey hair under his hat. ‘so, just be aware, the characters do tend to wander a bit.’ 

Bonnie lurks amongst the long tables in the dining hall, staring at the little party hats set out for tomorrow’s customers. Foxy twitches his curtains, just a touch, leaves them rumpled. the trim of the purple fabric is pockmarked with holes. 

there are footsteps, soft but sure, echoing down the corridor and through the security feed. Guy hits the LIGHT button, eyes trained on the wall outside. no shadows, not yet. 

‘they’re…’ how had the CEO put it? ‘left in some kinda… free roaming mode, at night.’ 

the footsteps have stopped. the dark halls are heavy with silence, an audience waiting for a punchline.

Guy leans back, chair creaking, and tries not to think of bright blood splattered over birthday banners.

‘they used to walk around in the day too, uh, until the bite of ’87. it’s amazing that the human body can survive without the frontal lobe, y’know?’

radio interference chitters through the security feed. 

49%, 3AM. 

every sunday, the engineers wipe everything on the animatronics memory cards that aren’t the basics. it seems to encourage docility; all of the night time savageness at the end of each week vanishing by the beginning of the next. two days ago, all four animatronics were gunning for Guy’s office dead on midnight, baying for his blood. right now, Foxy is peeking through his curtains, staring at the holes in the fabric like he doesn’t know what put them there. Chica is smashing pots and pans in the kitchen, and who the hell knows what she thinks she’s looking for in there. Bonnie just keeps walking the dining hall in circles, like a shark swimming in shallow waters. and Freddy, Freddy stands on stage, watching. 

 

it is almost as if they have forgotten what they are. 

 

‘the first day should be a breeze. I’ll chat with you tomorrow. uh, check those cameras, and remember to close those doors only if absolutely necessary. gotta conserve power!’ 

10%, 5:30AM. Guy hopes that CEO has someone in marketing who can edit all of his ramblings together without the awkward pauses where he stops the recorder to check the cameras. 

‘alright, good night.’ 

5%, 6AM. Guy snaps the recorder off, gathers his things. his back pops as he stands, his knees stuck with stiffness. he watches as the bandmates resettle themselves on their stage, and Foxy pulls his hook from pirate cove’s curtains. 

‘i’m not ready to go,’ Guy tells the dingy office. ‘not just yet.’ 

 

ii.

 

‘it did _what_ to him?’ 

‘bit him. the animatronic bit him.’ the day manager massages her temples, stares into her coffee cup, puts it back down on the table. 

Guy blinks. ‘i thought they had that thing, y’know, to make them not… do that, to people?’

‘everyone did.’ the manager looks up, fixes Guy with a ‘don’t shit a shitter’ glare. ‘let’s face it, this has been a long time coming.’

the dining hall is cavernous without the Toy animatronics up on stage, the group all powered down, wrapped up, and shipped off to some federal bureau. the manager takes a sip of her coffee, winces, and puts it back down on the table. 

’who watched this place last night?’ Guy asks.

‘some guy from the bureau. he was already gone when I got in this morning, apparently he took it upon himself to power them down before the engineers managed to get here.’

‘that’s kinda dumb.’

the manager shrugs, finishes off her coffee, keeping the cup in her hands. ‘i need you to watch over the place tonight. we haven’t figured out a safe place to store the old animatronics long term.’

‘long term? you mean they think we’ll re-open?’ 

‘didn’t you get the memo? they’re already agreeing rental for a place across town. it’s barely half the size of this place, but…’

‘well… that’s good? i guess?’

‘go home, get some rest. be back before twelve, ok? i have to go give a statement at the police station, so i probably won’t see you when you come back in.’

the sweat gathered in the folds of Guy’s neck cools, despite the summer stickiness. ‘statement? i thought you said it bit him, that’s covered by the safety waver, surely?’

‘it’s about the incident. with the yellow suit. they managed to catch someone on one of the cameras, they want me to see if i can identify the person on the tape.’

‘I hope they catch him,’ Guy says. 

the manager, who had been gathering coffee ringed papers into her bag, stops. ‘him?’

‘oh, that’s just what they say, isn’t it? I think that’s grammatically correct, or something.’

‘I guess it is. just remember, back before twelve, ok? that bureau guy said everyone was pretty active last night, but especially the older ones. that was his defence for shutting them off.’ 

‘right, well, be seeing you.’

‘you too.’

as Guy crosses the parking lot to catch his bus, he pretends that he hasn’t caught sight of the day manager, weeping at the wheel of her car.

 

Guy gets to work with ten minutes to spare, just long enough to get himself comfortable. he hangs his jacket on the back of his chair, puts his cheap soda to his left, Freddy mask and security tablet on the right of the table. there’s still some of Jeremy’s drawings on the table. Guy considers taking them to send to his family, but finds himself screwing them into tight balls and throwing them into the garbage can. he sits down, rubs at his eyes. he hadn’t been able to get any sleep.

he’s surprised when, at twelve, he opens up the security feed and finds the music box singing. weren’t the bureau supposed to take all of the new animatronics? the gift box is still taking up space at the prize counter, the music box still singing. it is too late for him to go and investigate, so Guy settles for jabbing his thumb onto the remote control, reminding the music box to keep singing lullabies. 

flicking the feed to CAM 10, he sees that the balloon vendor’s spot is empty. Guy shines his flashlight into the left air vent, sees nothing. he clips the flashlight to his belt, figuring it best to keep it close. even though he should be relieved, Guy can’t ignore the itchy niggling at the back of his mind that something in the restaurant is off base. Guy is so deep in this thought that he genuinely jumps out of his chair, barely catching himself on the desk, when one of the withered animatronics shambles into view of the camera. he had almost forgotten that it wasn’t just him, and whatever slept inside the gift box in prize corner. 

…hadn’t that bureau guy shut them all off? 

Guy activates CAM 10s light, strobing it. the animatronic stops its slow, befuddled journey through the empty game area, standing stock still. Guy blinks, and so does the animatronic, who is gazing at the camera as if also surprised that it is not alone in the abandoned building. something about the way it looks at the camera, almost like it _sees_ him, sets Guy’s gut bubbling with unease. he can only watch with giddy horror as the animatronic turns around, changing its course. 

straight for the security office. 

from CAM 11, the music box grows high pitched, it’s song changing to the one used to wake up the puppet once the restaurant opens and fills with eager children. adrenaline pumps through him, his vision wavers, as the decision to fight or flight rages through Guy’s body. he reopens CAM 11 and winds the music box back up, reminding it to keep singing lullabies. a quick flick through the cameras shows the animatronic moving purposefully through the party room just around the corner. Guy is stuck in the open plan office like a rabbit caught in a snare.

Guy squeezes his eyes shut, a childish protection. he chucks the tablet onto the desk, grapples blindly for the Freddy mask. it’s scratchy like foam insulation, and Guy groans as he pulls it over his head. satisfied the horrid thing is on straight, he peeks one eye open. the animatronic is squeezing itself into his office, head and shoulders stooped. 

Guy looks to the left and starts to count, _one, two, three, four,_ but instead of turning around and shuffling back out into the corridor, the animatronic just… stares. inside the itchy mask, Guy’s staccato breath heats his face. _five, six, seven._

the animatronic, Freddy, stares.

_eight, nine, ten._

why isn’t it leaving? mask on, count to four, and it goes away. those are the rules. somewhere over the rush of blood in his ears, Guy can hear frantic thumping from inside the right air vent. Freddy is staring, the music box is winding down. inside the right air vent, the thumping grows closer.

_eleven, twelve, thir—_

Freddy lunges, voice box roaring. Guy has no protocol for such flagrant rule breaking. mask on, count to four, and it goes away. it’s supposed to fucking go away, but instead it’s pushing aside his desk like the damn thing is made out of construction paper, syrupy cola splattering over the floor. the security tablet splinters under Freddy’s foot as the animatronic moves in front of him. one of its huge tattered brown paws open and close, pulling at the godawful mask, the sour filthy fur of its cold hands engulfing his face. the mask rips off easy as a band-aid, leaving Guy bare to the world. 

inside the right air vent, whatever is thumping grows closer. the music box is spitting out frenetic nursery rhymes. in the hallway, there is broken radio static. 

Freddy stares down from seven feet three inches above him. for the first time since the Incident, Guy dares to make eye contact; and 

oh

there is something so terribly human in those glass eyes. 

‘you’re—‘ Guy blurts, startling the animatronic out of its stupor. Freddy throws its microphone down - did it steal it from the Toy animatronic before it was seized? - which clatters into the right air vent, shocking whatever is thumping around in there. it blinks those uncanny eyes, its jaw flapping up, down, up, in a parody of speech, but the only sound the tattered animatronic can make is three blurted seconds of a preprogrammed jingle from the old restaurant. 

_dum-de dum dum dum de-dum dum de-dum_

and then, there is the wondrous morning chime from the clock that hangs in the main hall, calling out six. Freddy stops, his worn-felt hands still poised just centimetres from Guy’s face. there’s a high, strained noise, and Guy isn’t sure if that’s him, or the animatronic, who looks as torn as the tattered costume draped over its endoskeleton. slowly, it lowers its hands. in the air vent, whatever was moving around thumps away. Freddy turns, voice box rumbling like a child mid-tantrum, as it makes its way back to the spare parts room. 

 

Guy sits in his open plan office, his face bare to the world, and tries not to cry.

 

iii.

 

‘what the _fuck_ did that bureau guy do to the robots?’ Guy is still shaking as he corners the CEO, who is leading two strangers in business suits through the building. it is 9AM, and it has taken those three hours alone for Guy to come down from the panic attack that had followed his confrontation with Freddy Fazbear himself. like everyone who works at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, he has always shrugged off what the first night security guard had said about the animatronics behaviour after hours, and Jeremy had always dodged the question whenever someone had brought it up to him. having been promoted to security head at the time of the grand re-opening, Guy has never worked the night shift in this particular office before. 

last night was nothing like the nights at Fazbear’s Family Diner.

‘are you alright there, Guy?’ CEO is changing tack in front of who Guy now realises are probably the new buyers of this location. ‘been losing out on sleep again, huh? did those older models keep you busy last night?’

‘that’s one way of putting it, sir,’ Guy replies. CEO puts an arm around Guy’s shoulders and pulls him away, just enough to be out of earshot, but not enough for the suits to feel excluded. 

‘call me later, ok? I’ve found a storage company willing to hold the animatronics, so i won’t need you for tonight. just, get some rest. call me when you feel better, and we’ll talk about the future. alright? alright.’ CEO claps Guy on the back, gives him a short wave, and turns back to the suits, launching back into his sales pitch with a few clipped laughs. without looking back, CEO leads the suit wearing strangers through to the dining hall, leaving Guy and his shattered sense of security alone in the main hallway. 

Guy stands there for several aching minutes before he realises he doesn’t want to go home. last night was not ok. last night was not a computer error. 

the damn thing had looked at him like _it_ was human. 

CEO wouldn’t take the potential buyers by the spare parts room. Guy jogs there, nerves crackling with manic energy born from exhaustion. the door is slightly ajar, and inside, the animatronics are all slumped over, as if they were too tired to shut the door before going into sleep mode. Guy can see why the serving staff call this place the ‘graveyard’. somehow, Freddy has reclaimed his microphone, even though Guy knows the animatronic left the room without picking it back up. did it go back and get it when Guy left the office to confront the CEO? Guy swallows down the impulse to turn around and take another look at the unlocked door. surely, nothing good could come of it.

there’s a small toolkit on one of the shelves. Guy picks out a screwdriver, not terribly sure what he plans on doing with it. he’s acutely aware of how terrible this room stinks, like something has been left, dead and forgotten in this room, while outside, life continues on as normal. the air is thick and tomb-stale. 

Guy opens up one of the animatronics, Foxy. the cool metal insides are lacquered with a slick substance, but the light in the room is too murky to see what it is. Guy thinks it must just be oil, the company is hoping to reuse these animatronics after all. maybe the CEO finally ordered the upgrades for them in the purgatory time of the new pizzeria opening. Guy swipes his thumb through it, brings it up to his face. whatever it is, it’s dark and a little thick, like it’s drying. Guy sticks his hand in further, pressing aside the trailing wires that should indicate inoperability. Foxy is so damaged, Guy is able to stick his hand completely through. he waves at himself through Foxy’s stomach, huffing giggles as he does. Foxy never fails to make him laugh. the jostling causes Foxy’s body to sway side to side, a tumbling sound coming from deep inside its head. whatever it is jumbles down, pinging against the endoskeleton like a pinball, hits Guy in the arm.

it’s warm.

Guy yelps, pulls his arm back. his forearm is slick up to the elbow with that dark substance that runs right through the animatronic. the stale air fills with an all too familiar coppery tang. Guy looks down, and gags.

there’s human hair, long, curled damp with sweat, wrapped around his wrist.

Guy crumples to the floor, twitching with dry heaves as he tugs at the hair knotted over his pulse point. he remembers the flashlight that he accidentally stole from the security office, and points it at Foxy’s torso.

the same curly hair tumbles from the hole in its torso, the mysterious dark liquid oozing languidly like pus from an infected wound, pooling on the floor.

this time, Guy does throw up, cheap acidy soda vomit burning his throat.

‘oh god, oh no, jesus, that’s…’

blood.

 

 

‘and as you can see, this building just has a whole wealth of potential. so, what do you thi—‘

’sir! sir! oh god, you’ve got to… it’s an emergency, sir!’

CEO stares openly as Guy tumbles through the doorway, purple uniform ruined with bile and blood. 

‘Guy, what the hell happened?’ 

‘they’re in them. oh god, somebody put them _inside the robots_!’ 

the strangers in suits begin to murmur. CEO lips are a bloodless line. he turns, nice dress shoes clicking on the checkered tile, taking sharp strides over to where Guy stands shellshocked. 

‘I warned you. no, I asked you, _very nicely_ , to go home and sleep. if you want to have a job tomorrow, I suggest you go. now.’ the hand CEO has gripped on Guy’s elbow is not kind.

Guy’s vision is tunnelling, he doesn’t think he can find the front door even if his life, and job, depends on it. CEO gently turns him around, then not so gently shoves him out of kid’s cove and into the hallway. 

 

as he stumbles back through the building, Guy catches the doorway for the spare parts room slip shut from the inside.

 

iv.

Guy doesn’t know how he got home. the last thing he remembers is a closed door, then finally breaking down, sobbing not unlike the day manager had at the steering wheel of her car. she had been right, they had all known, deep in their bones, that something like this was going to happen. 

it is as if the bad luck from Fredbear’s Family Diner is haunting them. 

he is woken by his phone. he lets it ring, but instead of leaving a voicemail, the caller hangs up and immediately calls again. Guy forces himself to stand up, surprised to find himself on his couch. the memory of the animatronics slumped asleep in the spare parts room springs to his mind as he half crawls to the phone caterwauling in its cradle. 

‘hello?’ 

‘Guy?’ oh god, it’s the CEO. ‘how are you feeling, buddy?’

‘not so great. I just woke up, I guess.’

‘that’s good. I know it’s been a stressful few days, but you can’t forget to rest up.’ there’s an awkward, tangible pause, as CEO tries to fit the right words into his mouth.

‘I checked the robots, Guy.’ 

Guy’s hands almost forget how to hold the phone. ‘and?’

CEO sighs, crackling the phone line. ‘they were empty. just trailing wires and dust bunnies. but I do have some good news, you’ve got a whole week off to rest.’

‘a week, sir?’

‘that’s right! Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza re-opens next week!’

 

v.

with some trepidation, Guy settles himself in for his last night of work. tonight’s cheap cola is spiked for bravery with some even cheaper vodka. Guy doesn’t bother to start up the security feed, or check the back up generator. 

Guy rummages through the desk drawers for the digital recorder. the CEO has reassured him his ramblings can all be strung together to sound a little more professional, not that tonight’s message will take all six hours of his shift. 

he finishes his RC cola vodka mix just as his wristwatch beeps the hour. it is finally time for the highlight of his career, and yet, Guy finds himself struck stupid in his battered chair. twenty years of planning, and now in the moment, he is completely unprepared for the task that has kept him in the company all of these years. he is half tempted to just pick up the security tablet and work his last shift in peace, clock out at six, dump the stupid recorder on CEO’s desk, and follow through on his plans to retire. leave some other poor sap to deal with the consequences of his failures.

instead, Guy grabs the security tannoy, the one used to usher out customers upon closing, and begins his twenty year coming task.

‘I know you can hear me.’ he tries to wet his lips, but his mouth is vodka-dry. ‘and I know you know that I’m here.’

Guy is too ashamed to turn on the security feed to check their reactions.

‘I just want you to know that… oh god, I am so sorry. so very sorry. I was security head, and I… I have no excuses.’

Guy’s face is damp with an eye-stinging blend of sweat and tears. 

‘I don’t know what happened to you, to turn you into… this. and I’m just… I’m just so sorry that your loved ones… I can’t even… _imagine_ what it’s been like for you all, stuck here… _in_ there.’

Guy lets out a shaky breath, lets it rattle over the tannoy to let _them_ know he hasn’t gone anywhere. 

‘you were all so young,’ he sobs. 

and this is what does it. this is the final straw for the five patient souls, trapped in the cruelest of limbos. a vicious wail tears through the halls decorated with children’s clumsy crayon doodles. Guy panics, shutting both of his doors. he reflexively checks the generator, using the tannoy has sapped away at almost forty percent of his power. 

Guy quickly sets up the recorder, hitting RECORD for what he knows will be final time. 

‘Hello, he-hello? Hey! Hey, wow, day four. I knew you could do it.’

Guy swallows. now is his chance to blow the lid on this rotten place. he doesn’t have to run his messages past the CEO anymore after this, right?

but… what if they delete all of his messages, his warnings, get some other loyal company asshole to record them, without the thinly veiled survival tips?

Guy doesn’t need the security feed to monitor the bandmates. he can hear the meaningful stomp of heavy machinery approaching as quickly as its inhabitants can shake it out of the pre-determined walking patterns left over from the old location. 

it won’t be long before they finally come for him.

‘uh, listen, I may not be around to send you a message tomorrow.’ 

there’s banging at the right door, the teeth-itching clang of metal on metal. Foxy must finally have grown tired of playing peek-a-boo. 

‘it’s… it’s been a bad night here for me. Um, I… I’m kinda glad that I recorded my messages for you, when I did.’ 

it occurs to Guy that he cares for this faceless person, this person that he will never, ever meet. he has to swallow thickly to get past the vodka taste that begins to sour in the back of his throat. 

twenty years, and he is still such a coward. that’s what has truly kept him here in this dying pizzeria all these years. cowardice. he should have confessed his sins and be done with it years ago. but the moment for clemency has long since passed, and now his judge, jury, and executioners are right outside his door, ready to collect their pound of flesh. from the left door, a fresh wave of banging starts. 

he will have to answer to them, but… is he too sin-touched to ask his faceless protege for one final request?

‘uh, hey, do me a favour.’ he resists the urge to shout over the banging that threatens to drown out his wavering voice. ‘uh, could you check inside those suits in the back room?’ Guy thinks back to the first time he tried to take a vacation after the Incident, how one of the kitchen staff had watched the place in his stead. Guy had flown back in from his mother’s three days early on a bad feeling, to arrive home to the news that the poor kid had been stuffed into one of the suits, nothing left but shattered teeth and eyeballs. 

‘I’m gonna try and hold out until someone checks.’

how does he know this person that he will never meet will even care enough to look? Guy himself sure didn’t until his own life had been on the line. he remembers that sweet, curly hair, bathed in sweat and blood, and hangs his head in shame. 

‘maybe, it won’t be so bad?’

a fresh frenzied wave of banging begins, the office’s windows shaking. 

‘I…. I, I always wondered, what was in all of those empty heads back there.’

there’s a small click, then a long electronic whine, as Guy finally runs out of power. taking his cue, Freddy begins to play his jingle as he moves quickly down the west hall.

Guy shamefully squeezes his eyes shut as the heavy, ex-military doors crank open. there’s that godawful sibilant-shuffle of padded feet, as whoever was on the outside welcomes themselves in. 

‘you know…’ the thin hairs on the back of Guy’s neck prickle, as behind him, something wheezes and groans a death rattle. he expects to feel warm breath on his bare skin, but there is no warmth to be found at all.

Guy counts, _one, two, three, four_ … 

 

and opens his eyes.

 

they are all here.

 

‘oh, no—‘

 

vi.

 

he isn’t sure which one gets him first. 

 

coda.

 

six o’ clock could not have come quick enough for Mike. he waits until he is sure the animatronics have returned to their rightful places before bolting out the door, to the employee only area that holds the spare parts.

Mike edges the door open, before barrelling in all at once. his nerves are shot from the message meant just for him, received just six short hours ago.

the dusty floor is covered in paw prints the size of dinner plates. Mike doesn’t know where to start. the room is lined like in a museum, the heads, legs, arms all with their own places on the shelves that sit ceiling to floor. the only full size part is the bare endoskeleton that Mike swears once turned to face him when he had checked the camera. despite the dust, the room is hospital pristine. even the spiders that weave their webs throughout the dilapidated building know to avoid this room. 

his grandiose plans of rescue begin to feel more like childish games of playing hero as sleep deprivation hits him like a wave. the nights are catching up to him, and with the increasing hostility of the animatronics, the sharp technique he has begun to pride himself on is already turning sloppy. just today, he had almost let Foxy into the room as he had sat aghast, listening to the person he had begun to think of as his mentor be dragged off by the same things that he was trapped in the same building with. Mike had caught Foxy out of the corner of his eye, charging into his safe haven hook first, and slammed the doors down on him as the message ended. fresh horror flooded over him anew as he heard the piteous howl the animatronic let out as it had hammered at his door in a parody of it’s performance in the phone guy’s message. 

if _they_ caught him, would Mike’s replacement check the suits for him? the thought of rushing down the hall and freeing the phone guy from his prison had been the only thought keeping him going through his shift. now that he is here, Mike begins to realise he has no idea when that message had been recorded. he knows the guy on the phone hadn’t been the literal last night security guard, as the guard before him had quit unexpectedly after her forth night in the office. they were hurting for help so bad that they had basically hired Mike on the spot, despite his criminal record.

Mike finds a toolkit sat next to an ancient phone on one of the shelves. he grabs a screwdriver from it, unsure on what he plans on doing with it. he decides to open up the closest head to him, Foxy. it looks like it’s an older version, the muzzle too long, the eyepatch covering the wrong eye. he prizes off the back panel, catching his thumb on the screwdriver when it slips. he sucks at the blood that floods from his cuticle as he pulls the head apart like a letter. 

it’s empty.

…wait.

the soft felt skull is covered in… something. whatever it is, it’s dark, and a little thick, like it’s drying. puzzled, Mike sits on the floor, cradles the empty head in his lap as he swipes his other thumb through the suspicious substance. he holds his hand into the small beam of light coming from the doorway.

oh no.

Mike holds his still bleeding thumb up to the thumb covered in the stuff from Foxy’s head, his sleep numbed mind struggling to add two plus two to make four.

it’s blood.

Mike throws Foxy’s head away from him in an animalistic need to put space between himself and the source of his panic. it clatters into the door of a cabinet that is tucked neatly in the blind spot of the security camera. the door creaks open, and this entire situation feels so much like a horror movie, Mike is beginning to wonder if this isn’t all just some sort of set-up. some weird hazing ritual. there has always been some mythology surrounding the first five days of a night guard’s shift. Mike scrabbles to his knees, and crawls over to the cabinet, pulling the door all the way open. he half expects to find one of the hostesses, who love practical jokes, crammed in there with her phone ready to pap a picture of his terror warped face. but instead, there is another suit. a yellow one, possibly once gold, but so tatty and covered in stains it looks more like a miserable mall mascot than a beloved children’s entertainer. 

Mike pulls it out, it’s light, too light to have an endoskeleton inside, but not light enough to be empty. he locates the zipper, tugs it down. inside, is a limp marionette, hidden inside the yellow suit upside down so that it’s painted face grins hello at Mike as he reveals it. 

so the cabinet just holds a Russian nesting doll of spare suits for the endoskeletons? Mike dumps the unzipped suit, with stow-away, back into the cabinet and stands up, not bothering to shut it again. he isn’t concerned about rotting suits bitten away by moths. he needs to wash his hands, put on the coffee for the day manager, and wait for his meeting with the CEO this afternoon about the possibility of over time. Mike decides to bring up the phone guy’s messages to him then.

 

it’s all just a joke, right?

 

the CEO is nearing ninety, but turns up to the office once a week wearing a thirty year old suit and an invisible hearing aid. his office is actually the day manager’s office, but she turns a blind eye to the way he commandeers her orthopaedic chair and puts the photograph of her granddaughter inside the desk drawer. 

Mike’s thumb is still bleeding as he waits for the CEO to start their meeting. his other thumb is scrubbed clean, but a musty copper tang still remains. with his hands clean, Mike begins to write off the entire experience as sleep deprivation. he must have rubbed some blood over the Foxy head when he picked it up. 

how else would it get in there?

‘so,’ CEO starts. ‘how’ve you found the week?’

‘it’s been… exciting.’ 

CEO smiles, like they are both sharing the same joke. ‘I suppose there’s no better word, huh? did you ever visit the restaurant in it’s glory days?’

Mike thinks back, to birthday parties with ice cream and cake. ‘once, but I don’t really remember much.’

‘this used to be a wonderful place, Mike.’ CEO’s eyes, the left milky white, become unfocused as memories play out behind them. ‘so! would you be interested in a contract extension?’

‘yessir, plus overtime.’ 

CEO’s smile wavers. ‘overtime?’

Mike leans forward in his seat. ‘it’s in the handbook, sir, that any Fazbear Entertainment employee can wave the maximum hour requirement. I’m asking to work seven days a week. I’ll sign whatever.’

‘that seems a little dangerous, for your, ah, health. you’re still young! you shouldn’t waste all of your youth working!’ 

‘with all due respect, sir, who will you have come and work on my nights off?’

CEO slumps. ‘I’ll be frank, Mike. the night security post has a high turn over, we’ve never had that sort of problem before.’ 

‘so you’ll let me do the overtime?’ 

‘I suppose so, but… you will take care of yourself, won’t you?’

Mike is beginning to suspect that maybe the CEO _does_ know what happens in his restaurant after dark. he signs all paperwork presented, and watches the CEO file it away in the cabinet. 

Mike’s memory jogs. ‘sir, I meant to ask you something.’

‘well sure.’

‘the guy who recorded those messages for me… when did he leave, exactly?’ 

CEO falters again. ‘…messages?’

Mike blinks. ‘yeah, the phone rings, and the guy gives me, um, training tips, and stuff.’ 

CEO is pale, his face waxy. Mike is halfway out of his seat in concern when he manages again to speak. 

‘we couldn’t find the tape recorder,’ CEO says.

Mike sits back down, mortified. 

they are most definitely in on the same joke. only it is not a joke. something terribly wrong has happened at this awful restaurant, and Mike is several years too late to appreciate the true horror of his little reveal today.

‘when did the phone guy… retire?’ 

‘almost ten years ago.’ CEO laughs, but it is all bitter. ‘haven’t had a decent guard since. ’til you! I… I asked him to record a few messages, I planned on setting the manager’s phone to call the security office and play them for his replacement. but we never found the recorder.’

CEO mops his face with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘no other guard has ever mentioned receiving phone calls. the ones that could mention it, anyway.’

‘oh,’ Mike says.

‘Guy was a brilliant employee, was with us right from the start. but he was a troubled man, and it held him back. I could never say I was surprised with the way he left the company.’ 

‘I looked in those suits in the back room,’ Mike blurts. ‘I found that yellow suit, from the news story.’

‘the yellow…? jesus christ, you’re gonna be the death of me. anything else you wanna shock me with?’

‘just, the weird puppet suit crammed inside it. were they from the old place?’ 

CEO sits still, visibly calculating. ‘there was never a puppet suit. the kids all used to draw this weird thing with strings, we all just thought it was a popular television character or something. nothing like that ever existed at any of our restaurants. are, are you sure it was definitely the _yellow_ suit you found?’

Mike shakes his head. ‘nope, it was yellow. golden. looked a bit worse for wear, though.’

‘I think we’re done for today. I don’t have any more shocks left in me!’ CEO waves Mike away.

when Mike shuts the door, he doesn’t miss the muttered:

‘I thought they took that one away.’

 

when the phone rings that night, Mike’s pulse flutters. he flicks the ON switch for the security feed, tries not to wince as the old tech drains the generator. 

the phone rings, _one, two, three, four,_ goes to voicemail. Mike waits in childish excitement for what his would be mentor has to tell him today.

 

i̬̮̩̯͙t̵̹ ̙͕̳̪̳̳i҉͓̯̬͓s̺ ̹̯̘̥́ͅl҉̗̹a̟͎̺̫̤m̹͕̺̜ͅe̱͕̱n̢͈͚̭̰̮̙̘t̜̱ab͚̻l̻̯̰e̬͔̫ ̷͓̣͉̤͓͚t͉̥͎̼̗͔ͅh̙̜̻̦͎̞̞a͓̻͙̙t̴̳̮͍̤̜̣ ̗̘̜̮͜b̤̻͓̗͉͕͎͠y̹̬̼̩̮͖̘ ̹f̼͙̰̖̭͖ú̥̜̱̫̺l͖̦̜̜̜̝̱͞l̛̪͖͖e͏̬͉̘͉̼r҉̼͖̫̙̗ ͙̼̣͓̙̠u̩̭s̬̥̯̗̺ͅę ̳̩̭̗o͎̮̠̱͚f ͇̣͓͢y̵̥̖o̶̩͍͉͔̻̯̺u̝͡r҉ͅ ̘̲̮̖̪̣ḿ̮̝̮͓̘a̫̬͢r̭̦v͚̺̘͡e͚̳ĺ̙͔̰o̫̤͚̤̬ͅụ̻̀s̰͍̭̙͔͖͢ ͓̞͔̱m͙̖̯̝͚͈͢e̠̹ch͉̗͟a̺͕̺͈̦n̰i̧̙̣̘̫s̨̜̼̯̰m͖̘̩̞͎̞̭s̨̬͚̥ͅ. ͖͇̭̱̰W̼̱o̺̩ṳ̠̳͕͉̞ͅl̢̞͍͖̟̲͖̱d̟̱͚̀ ҉͈͈i̧̯̙̬̘̦̱̯t҉̗̗͖̞͕ n̜̯o̘̺͖͇̺̭t̻̟̝̤̝̹ ̝b̼̟̗̺̯̬̰͞e̸̳̤̭͍̪̯̟ ̹̭̬̞̯̩͢e̞a̛̪̟s̤̞͖i̡̠̲̭l̩̳̦͚̞̼͍y̬̯͇̯͎̦̠ ͉̖p̯̭̞ọ̟̲́s̬͙̦͓̺̀s̝͖͞i̛̥̻̼̗b̧̤͚l̥̮̻̥̼̬͕e̻͎͕̤̪͔̺ ̞͇̠̳͚̮̦t҉̖̳̯o͈͔̥ ̜̘͖̗e̝̬̫m̰̱̜̫͔p̦̼̳ͅl̺̼͖͜oy̦̺̗̙͍ͅ ̪̞͈͇̝̭̩s̴͉͈o̫̥̬̲̥̞̱m̴͍ͅe̸̺͔͎ ̺̤͟o̷f ͕̻t͉h҉̬͉̠e̞̮̙̭͕m͉̘͙̳̭ ͙̮͎̮̻̞̻͘i͚̮͖̭n҉͇̥̟̰̗̱̰ ̧̼̬̭͍̯q͞u̻̰͈i̧͈̞̣̩͇c̹̱͘ķ̲̥̠̞̦ ̯l̖̥ab̮͈͞ͅo̞̺͚̝ͅͅr̵̜̹̟̖a̰̲̜̳͍t̻͕̘̣o͉̤͈r̗͍y͚͕̱̦̼͎͓ e̲̪̹͈̫̯̲x̺̝̫͈̜p̙̣͔͚̱e̹̦̩ṟ̥̜̹͔͇̲i̠̗͙̞̯͞m̝̀ͅe̙̠̺n͚t͔̠̱̭̬s̴̹̙ ̨̳̻̝ͅͅͅt̰̦͓̺o̮̦ ̰͕͖̬̕i̲̙͓̣͝n͏dicat͞e̪̥͡ ̰̥͔̦̲̗͓g̴̹̺̲̪r̭̰͜o̥͔̩ẁ̮̣ţh̶̩̖̰̦̺?̡ ͎̬̤̖ͅC̸͔̬̙͇o͖̺̮̲͍u̝n̪̟̭̪̣͚̥t̛ļ̼͔es̮̝̗̻͙s̱̳̗̥̞̻ ̛͉̦͕̦̣̙̹u̮̱s̭̪̬̞͓e̜s͔͕̭ ̴̥͕̺w̙̯̤̭̝̻͜ͅi̙̻l̤̱̟͓̼̞l̩͇͔̖̲̘̯͢ ̛̝̗̦̟͍̖̞be͈͢ͅ ̗͎͎̞̝̖͢m̘̟̫̘a̳d͕͓̯̹͝é ̧̞̲͎b̴͓̱̫y̪̫ ̵f̪̗̦̳̕u̟͇̤t̟̻͓͡u̵̠͎̳̠͓̪͕r͙͎͕e̛̠̩̫̜̝ ge͙̩͟n͇͢e̦̳̻͔̻͍̗r҉͇͈͙̰̬͉͎a̞̰̦t̛͎̪i͍͖̪̞͟ͅo̡͖͎̘̦̥ns̴̰̺͍̥̺. ̙̝͕̣͈͈̥́s̳͉̗͢ͅe̸͓̺̩̥̺l̩͎̯̺͉d̸̫̳͉̭̬͔̼o̡̯̮̼̮̩m̘͠ ̡̗k̵͓n̻̤̹̻̠o̸̭͎̰͙ws̻̦ ̯̞̩̫͕̜͔̀th̼̪̜̰̟͙e̠̘͚̱̬ ̭̯̰j̩̹͘o̘ý͙̟̮͍ ̡o̵͔̹͈f͕̦ ͎̣̗͈c̛̫̠̺̮͖̬r̳̰̦̩̕e̢̥a̮̬͕̭͎̳͜t̜̻͖i̝͢o̠͢ņ̙̜̥. ̳̝̺͈͕͇̫͞  
̟̱͖̩̲̭  
̲̪̳͙̻

 

Mike’s stomach sinkholes. he looks balefully at the security feed, tries to quash the blinding, quaking terror; there is no one standing on stage.

the camera shows that pirate’s cove is empty, ratty curtains pulled wide open like a smile. 

circus music, Mike blinks.

the sign on pirate’s cove is different.

# WE LIVE ON

he hears them before he finds them through the cameras. Mike knocks the security feed as he attempts to stand up, escape, and toggles CAM 2B. 

in the hallway stands the yellow suit, the one that shouldn’t even be here. it’s eyes are two dangerously sharp white pinpricks. in the deep dark, it waves hello. 

 

 

Mike isn’t sure which one gets him first.  


**Author's Note:**

> if you feel i missed any tags, please let me know.


End file.
